flyleaf
by Setkia
Summary: It's a thought that floats in his mind, and he nods at it as it goes by. You're in love with Maka Albarn. Ah yes, right. That makes sense. What other explanation is there for the parties he goes to even though he hates them? Or how he hasn't relied on take-out on his night to cook in over three months?


_**flyleaf  
** by: Setkia_

* * *

 **It's a thought that floats in his mind, and he nods at it as it goes by. _You're in love with Maka Albarn._ Ah yes, right. That makes sense. What other explanation is there for the parties he goes to even though he hates them? Or how he hasn't relied on take-out on his night to cook in over three months?**

* * *

She's sitting on the kitchen counter with a hefty volume in her lap, eyes narrowed in concentration, lips parted ever so slightly as her fingers trace the letters on the page, and he can _feel_ her leaving him, entering whichever magical land of her choice today.

As much as he hates when she abandons him for faraway lands of knights and princes, forcing him to face reality on his own, it's times like these he can watch her without fear.

Her long, smooth legs cross and uncross as she tries to make herself comfortable. Her lips are dry, will probably crack when she smiles at a funny passage, and her hair is messily tied in those trademark pigtails that make him think of her name every time he sees elastics.

It's the early hours of the morning, and it's his turn to cook. The waffles are in the toaster, so he lets himself relax and stare at his Meister in all her glory.

It feels kind of wrong that he's competing with a _book_ of all things for her attention, but then again, she wouldn't be Maka if she wasn't completely enraptured by loosely bound together pages that are turning yellow from how often she's read the book that crumbles under her delicate touch, even though her fingers ghost over the spine like it's the most precious piece of a trove of treasures.

He's not sure how he ended up with such a brilliant Meister, especially considering _who_ he is.

He remembers the day clearly. The café, the piano, the girl with the pigtails who leaned forward as she talked, like she lost her balance, and her breathless "I liked it" when he poured the darkest corners of his mind onto the ivory keys.

It was a short exchange, but one that's been brazened on his eyelids ever since.

They could've been ships passing each other in the night, but he held tightly, unable to pull his anchor out of her deck, no matter how many books she threw at his skull. He's stubborn like that.

Those first few months of partnership were tough. She didn't trust him, and he was scared he'd made a mistake. It wasn't easy, and when he thinks back to those early days, they've certainly come a long way from where they started.

She turns a page with such focus, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth and it hits him.

He loves her.

He thought it'd be scarier than this. It's a thought that floats in his mind, and he nods at it as it goes by. _You're in love with Maka Albarn._ Ah yes, right. That makes sense. What other explanation is there for the parties he goes to even though he hates them? Or how he hasn't relied on take-out on his night to cook in over three months? It certainly justifies the times he stares at her through the stacks and stacks of books at the library.

It just makes sense.

She gets him to do things no one else ever could. Makes him _want_ to do things he never thought he would. Gives him things he never thought he could have. Hope, respect, trust, a shoulder to lean on.

Honestly, loving her is the least expecting thing she's done to him.

"Ow."

Maka sticks her finger in her mouth to get rid of her paper cut. "Soul, can you get me a bandaid?"

 _I love you._

He doesn't say it.

He may not be the brightest, but he's smart enough to know her father's hurt her. There's no way she'd accept a love confession, especially given how mundane the setting is. Maybe grand gestures remind her too much of her Papa, but early on a Tuesday morning in the kitchen is _not_ the time to confess. He doesn't need it to be perfect, but it's not the right time.

He'll figure it out. Eventually.

"Soul? The bandaid?"

He'll tell her. One day.

For now, he can do this.

"As you wish."


End file.
